Stroganoff
by Miss British Teacakes
Summary: A pointless bit of stuff, in which the day is saved by a hot carton of stroganoff. Don't ask, just read. BS implied.


I can hear the folks upstairs playing one of their records. Something sort of jazzy and melancholy, like you would hear in the 1920's, in a club. I like it. I can always hear their music, because the apartment is crummy. I usually like their music. For once, I'm not bothered that our employer has given us a crummy flat.

I bring the cigarette up to my lips and take a drag. After a moment, I let out the smoke, watching it curling above my head. I'm too lazy to get off the couch, and will probably get scolded for it later. Not that it really matters. Crawford only tells me to not smoke, or get off my ass, or to use an ashtray out of habit. He doesn't really care that much. Well, maybe he does about the ashtray. But I usually use one anyway.

As I watch a new stream of smoke curl up in fascination, I hear the door open, and click shut. I reach out with my mind, to feel a familiar silence. My mouth curls into a smile around the nearly-gone cigarette. I have to admit, the moment I heard the silence (kind of backward, no?) in his head, I was addicted. I still am.

"You using an ashtray?"

I know he hasn't looked up from the paper on the table. It was the same everyday. Maybe it has to do with him being a precog, but he's very predictably. Such a routine he keeps!

"What do you think?" I say. After a moment of silence, I roll my eyes. "Yes."

More silence. Brad never _has_ been a many of many words. You many people realize it, but he's the kind of guy who's first rule is: "When in doubt, shoot first then ask questions." Not like me. I just ram my way into people's heads. Everything is easier that way.

For a moment, I wonder if that's why we were put together. Then I remember that it was he who chose. I have to admit, it's very clever.

He comes and sits across from me, opening his laptop. I find it funny. He's sitting there with his nice laptop, in his Armani suit. But the flat is a dump. Paint is slowly chipping from the thin walls, the floor creaks with every step, and the heat doesn't work. We're both still wearing our coats. It's too cold for anything else.

My eyes shift to the window. All you can see is the building next to us. Snow falls lightly, and you can hear the sounds from the street below. Russia's a strange country. But then, I suppose Germany is, too. America has so far topped all others on strangeness. I like it a lot, although it seems Brad doesn't. Oh well.

Finally, I get too hungry to lie there anymore. I stand and walk to the kitchenette. Opening the cabinets, I see nothing. I make my way over to the one over the sink, and pull down a glass, then go to another and take out the brandy. I poor myself a half class and sip it. Instantly, I feel heat rising to my cheeks. I knew this would work.

"You drink more than me," Crawford comments from the chair. "And you're only sixteen."

"Yeah, so?" He never really drinks himself. He gets drunk quickly enough.

"I wish you wouldn't."

"Well, if we had some food in this place, I would be making something hot and _not_ drinking," I snap. "However, seeing as how we don't, I think I'll just finish this glass, and move on to another."

His wallet almost hits my head. I open it, and there is about a hundred rubles in it. It's a known rule that if you have more than a fifty rubles on you, you will be mugged. If you have a hundred, you'll hardly even get out the door. And I don't seem quite as intimidating as Crawford. Not yet, at any rate.

I head into the first take-out place that I find. I order stroganoff and pay the man. I get our food extremely quickly, very hot. Apparently the man liked the nice, crisp bill. Not only was it real, I told him to keep the change. I didn't have time for that, in my hurry to get our food and get back.

Crawford looks up as I come in the door. We eat in the dingy living room. The stroganoff is better than the liquor. It's hot, filling, and the carton keeps my lap wamr in the process.

So I come to a conclusion. Our employer sucks, our apartment sucks, and the lack of heating sucks, but stroganoff is very, _very_ good.

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Notes: Don't even ask. I was bored. I wrote. You got your pointless fic in which stroganoff is the hero. Now review.


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